


Too Great and Difficult

by Still_and_Clear



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-07
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 11:54:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5162921
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>I wrote this as a fix-it fic before ep 7 aired, based on seeing the trailers - in an imagined scenario where Jim *did* shoot Oswald.  As it happens, that didn't happen, and we got a bunch of shipper feels instead :D  Anyway - it was basically fully written, so I thought I'd post it.</p><p>This is light on wider plot.  You can imagine that Galavan has been removed, that Lee has left Jim.  In my head canon for this Gertrud was rescued, but Oswald has sent her away to live somewhere safer - which has taken a toll on him.  If you prefer, you can imagine Gertrud's canon ending - I don't think it makes a difference here.</p>
    </blockquote>





	Too Great and Difficult

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this as a fix-it fic before ep 7 aired, based on seeing the trailers - in an imagined scenario where Jim *did* shoot Oswald. As it happens, that didn't happen, and we got a bunch of shipper feels instead :D Anyway - it was basically fully written, so I thought I'd post it.
> 
> This is light on wider plot. You can imagine that Galavan has been removed, that Lee has left Jim. In my head canon for this Gertrud was rescued, but Oswald has sent her away to live somewhere safer - which has taken a toll on him. If you prefer, you can imagine Gertrud's canon ending - I don't think it makes a difference here.

Oswald makes sure to pour himself a generous drink. He deserves it, after another long night’s work. His ability to cling to power despite upheaval and attack from all quarters has finally, finally, won him the respect he craved. The younger ones see him as _their_ leader. The older ones as some sort of genius prodigy. 

He doesn’t care. As long as they acknowledge that he is their _better,_ and obey his every command.

He feels, if anything, a calm sense of satisfaction. Not exultant, as he might have been once. But he rarely manages the extremes of emotion these days. The ruthless pragmatism that manifested itself in his plans and philosophy had finally become evident in his manner in the form of an icy, controlled precision exerted over all his dealings and interactions.

He tilts his heavy glass this way and that, enjoying the play of light through the gold liquid. He should probably go to bed.

There’s a soft, apologetic knock at the door.

‘Yes?’

Gabe’s large frame appears in the doorway. 

‘You got a visitor, boss. Bullock. You want me to throw him out?’

Oswald smiles thinly. ‘Perhaps later, Gabe. In the meantime, let’s see what he can offer me.’

He leans back in his chair, stretching an arm out to the decanter to pour another drink for Bullock. He’s too greedy to pass it up, he knows, and a little alcohol can only work in Oswald’s favour.

When Bullock enters the room, Oswald can see that he is agitated, conflicted, does not want to be there. He can see it in his movements, in his tendency to be restless and fidget. It reminds him of…

He takes a sip of his drink, enjoying the burn.

‘Detective Bullock. It’s been such a long time. Please, sit. Have a drink.’

Bullock drops gracelessly into the chair facing him. Lifting the glass from the table, he downs the drink in one gulp. How interesting. Dutch courage, perhaps? It looks like it.

Bullock closes his eyes for a moment afterwards, like he is waiting to feel the warmth start to creep out through his veins before he’ll talk.

He looks Oswald straight in the eye.

‘You know why I’m here.’

Oswald frowns. ‘No. I don’t.’

Bullock’s face grows stormy. ‘Jim.’

Oswald stares back at him. He knows that there’s no expression on his face. Maybe it looks even more still than usual.

Harvey scrutinises his face – rumpled appearance belying his shrewdness. Eventually, he speaks.

‘I’m worried about him.'

Oswald feels a dull sensation in his chest. A memory of the feeling, rather than the feeling itself. He continues to stare intently at Bullock, waiting for more.

‘He’s going to wind up dead at this rate.’

Oswald raises an eyebrow. ‘Police-work in Gotham is rather dangerous.’

Harvey shoots him a look.

‘He’s volunteering for jobs that amount to suicide runs. When he’s out in the field, he’s reckless – spoiling for a fight.’ Bullock splays his hand through his hair. ‘When he’s off-duty, he drinks. Even by my standards, he _drinks.’_

‘I’m sure this is all very sad news, Detective, but what exactly would you have me do about it?’ His smile is cold, he knows.

Bullock gives him that look again.

‘This all started after you…’

‘You mean, after he shot me? Are you _quite_ sure, Detective? He didn’t seem especially troubled by it at the time.’

Harvey shakes his head. ‘You know that’s the kind of guy Jim is. He’s a soldier. He won’t let it show on his face.’ He tilts his head and looks keenly at him. 'Your poker face is looking better these days too, Penguin. You been working at it?’

Oswald only offers another icy smile in return.

Harvey sighs, defeated.

‘I’m asking you to talk with him.’

‘He wants to talk?’

‘Yeah, well, he doesn’t actually say that – but I know better.’

‘How do I know he won’t try to finish what he started?’

‘Take a couple of your guys with you. They can wait around, pile in if anything goes bad.’

‘And how do you know I won’t simply take the opportunity for revenge?’

Bullock just looks at him tiredly.

‘If you’d wanted that, he’d have been dead by now.’

Oswald drops his eyes as he places his glass back on the table.

‘I’ll consider it. I’ll be in touch with my decision.’

Harvey puts his own glass back on the table. ‘Yeah, well, don’t take too long. I don’t know long he can keep beating the odds.’

Oswald watches him leave, and then makes his way to bed.

**

The next day, he gestures Gabe to stay behind at the end of the morning meeting.

‘Gabe. I have a rather particular matter which requires attention. I should like to trust it to your care.’

Gabe nods, placid as ever. Oswald wonders what would actually have to happen to ruffle him.

‘I need to test Detective Jim Gordon’s state of mind. I will orchestrate a situation that will demand his attention. Nothing too showy.’

Gabe nods again.

‘I want a scenario to occur where his life could be in danger, but he _will not be killed._ Is that clear?’

Another nod.

‘A minor injury is acceptable. What’s of real interest is his willingness to put his life at risk. And, as usual, I will ensure you are well-rewarded for your efforts.’

**

Two weeks later, Harvey Bullock is standing in Oswald’s drawing room again.

‘Did you get him shot?!’

Oswald smiles tightly.

‘I wanted to properly test your theory for myself. As it happens – I concur. I was told, by my employees, that he was reckless. In fact, I was told that he goaded those present, that he deliberately escalated the situation.’

Bullock scrubs tiredly at his eyes.

‘Yeah. I’ve noticed that.’

‘Not content with that stupidity,’ Oswald continues, ‘ he then ran headlong into a situation where taking cover would have been far more wise. The fact that he was only shot in the shoulder is testament to Gabe’s skill in managing the situation. Had it not been staged…’

‘…he would have been killed’, finishes Bullock. ‘Yeah - like I said, he’ll wind up a dead man if this doesn’t stop.’ He looks Oswald straight in the eye, waiting. Oswald glances away.

‘I’ll talk to him.’ He taps his fingers against the table top. ‘I don’t know why I _should_ , and I don’t know what it will accomplish, but it will be… entertaining, if nothing else.’

Bullock only looks at him.

**

Oswald climbs the stairs to Jim’s apartment. Gabe is close at his heels, as is Bullock. They linger halfway up the staircase as Oswald knocks on the door. They’ve agreed that they’ll both wait outside the door as soon as they hear that Oswald is inside the apartment. If Jim lets him in. If it sounds like things are going badly, then they’ll step in.

The door opens abruptly.

‘Harvey. I already said I…’ 

His voice peters out when he sees that it’s not Harvey, but Oswald who’s standing in front of him.

Oswald clears his throat and speaks, since Jim appears to have been temporarily silenced.

‘Detective skills sharp as ever? No, it’s not Bullock.’

Jim is still standing there – looking at him like he’d seen a ghost.

‘May I come in?’ Oswald asks, mixing civility with a generous dose of sarcasm.

Jim steps aside and lets him pass. Once he is inside, he hears the door behind him close with a click. Oswald’s muscle tense reflexively. This man tried to kill him. This situation is volatile.

Jim drops heavily into an armchair, rubbing at his shoulder – still bandaged.

‘I didn’t know when it would happen’ says Jim, slowly. ‘I thought you’d send someone.’ He rubs at his chin. ‘Or maybe an accident in the field. I wondered if you’d use Zsasz.’

Oswald feels a cold weight settle in his stomach. _He thinks I’m here to kill him. And he let me in anyway._

He gathers his composure before answering.

‘I have better things to do with my time. Besides, you seem to have decided to deal with that matter yourself. Saving me the trouble. How considerate.’

Jim open his eyes and looks at him, sceptical.

Oswald feels a rush of emotion that is definitely anger. How _dare_ Jim judge him. Oswald isn’t the betrayer here. 

He laughs lightly.

‘As usual, you like to pretend that you’re not responsible for your actions.’ The muscles across his neck and back are tightening painfully, a sure sign of rage. ‘Oh, Falcone manipulated me, Oswald trapped me, Galavan tricked me.’

Jim’s face is reddening in anger, and there’s a spark in his eyes breaking through the fog of alcohol.

‘Poor Jim Gordon – can’t live with himself anymore. What’s wrong, Jim? Run out of people to blame?’ He steps forward. ‘If you’d managed to finish the job – would you feel better about it? Easier if I was dead and buried?’

He’s yelling now – and utterly infuriated. He suddenly can’t see a way for them to continue like this – to continue at all, actually. His eyes dart around the room until they seize on something.

‘I tell you what’, he says, snatching Jim’s gun from the coffee table. ‘Why not try again?’ Jim just stares at him from the armchair, wide-eyed and motionless. He feels a burst of frustration, and thrusts the gun into Jim’s hand. ‘Go on – even you can’t miss at this range. Would you like me to repeat Galavan’s speech? It worked for you last time. It’s your job, I’m a monster, no-one will miss me…’

‘Shut _up!’_ snarls Jim, finally goaded into a response.

Oswald sneers. ‘ _You_ do it. _You_ shut me up. Go on – I’ve even given you one of your favourite excuses. You were provoked, lost your temper.’

Jim surges up from the chair and grabs Oswald by the collar, gun still in his right hand. He runs his tongue over his teeth.

‘No. I won't. Why don’t _you_ do it?’ 

Oswald blinks in surprise. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out. 

Grabbing Oswald’s right hand, Jim presses the gun into it, wraps his fingers round it. 

‘Go on, then. You’ve bought enough power in this town to be sure you’d get off.’ Oswald tries to pull his hand away, but Jim only tightens both their hands around the gun.

‘What’re you doing? Don’t run away! They’ll call it suicide. Cite my recent work record. Drinking alone at night. Couldn’t cope with the pressure anymore. No-one will miss me. Harvey would get a new partner, get over it. And you must’ve found a new corrupt cop by now. Makes no difference.’

Oswald stares at him.

Frustrated, Jim shakes him when there’s no response. His breath sounds like it’s being forced from him, and there’s a new light in his eyes – something raw, under all the rage and booze. ‘ _You’ve got cause._ I deserve it’ He clenches his jaw, teeth bared. ‘Do it. _Do it!_ ’

There’s an almost imperceptible tremor through the hand that’s wrapped tightly over his. Oswald takes advantage of it to snatch his hand free, and hurls the gun into the corner of the room.

They stand there in the middle of the room, breathing harsh, refusing to retreat. A whole big room, and they manage to wind up close enough that there’s barely any light between them. Just like they always do. A whole city to live in, a city this size, and they keep crashing into each other.

Jim’s stare is the first to break, eyes suddenly flitting side to side. ‘I’m going to be sick’ he announces. He makes quickly for the bathroom. Too much booze and stress.

Oswald passes his hand over his eyes. It trembles badly, and he’s aware now of the pain lancing through his bad leg. He drops onto the couch.

He can hear the sound of Jim rinsing his mouth and spitting into the sink. He appears presently in the doorway of the room, face ashen, eyes bloodshot. He walks over and sits down on the couch, not far from Oswald. Oswald would like to get up and move to an armchair, try and grab for the calm he had found over the last couple of months, but his muscles feel like water, and so he stays.

‘So’, he says, attempting to take charge of the situation. Jim turns to look at him, head resting back against the cushions, too tired to maintain his usual tense, upright posture.

Oswald doesn’t know what to say next. Doesn’t know how he thought this would go, or how he wanted to it to go. He hadn’t anticipated losing his temper quite so badly. Certainly hadn’t anticipated putting a gun in Jim Gordon’s hand and giving him yet another chance to put a bullet in his brain.

Jim’s voice cuts through the silence.

‘I don’t want you dead.’

‘But…’

Jim cuts in before he can finish. ‘You know what he was like. What he did to people. I don’t want you dead.’

Oswald shuts his eyes. When he opens them again, Jim is watching him, as drained as Oswald’s ever seen him. Oswald frowns.

‘Then why all this?’ he asks, honestly curious.

‘Why all...?’ Jim seems at a loss.

‘If you know what he could do to people, what he did to me, what he did to you – then why punish yourself? Deliberately try to get yourself killed?’

‘Because I can’t see how to start fresh again.’

Oswald laughs bitterly.

‘Fresh starts? No-one gets fresh starts. We carry it all with us. All the…all the bruises, the scars. We move forward, and…’

Jim interrupts him. ‘Show me’, he says.

Oswald frowns, confused, until he follows Jim’s eyes down to his shoulder. The shoulder Jim put a bullet in.

Wordlessly, he unbuttons his jacket, shrugs it off. He looks over at Jim after he's undone his tie and beginning to unbutton his high collar. His eyes lie heavy on Oswald’s hands.

Oswald opens his shirt, pulls the fabric apart just enough to show Jim the twisted scar on his shoulder. When he looks over at Jim, his eyes leave the scar and flicker back up to Oswald’s face. 

Their eyes grab and lock like they haven’t done for months, not since the night when Jim gave Oswald his scar.

Jim reaches a hand out and pushes the fabric completely off his shoulder, presses his fingertips to the skin. 

‘How is your shoulder?’ asks Oswald, falling back on the formal courtesies he uses like armour , his voice almost a whisper.

Jim’s fingers keep tracing over the scar as he looks up at him.

‘It was you, wasn’t it?’

Oswald can only nod, his mental focus narrowed solely to the sensation of Jim's fingertips against his bare shoulder.

Jim nods back.

‘That’s why it was only my shoulder. Could’ve been my chest. Head.’

‘Bullock came to me. I had to see if he was lying’

Jim doesn’t answer, just circles his fingers over and over.

‘They’re outside now,’ says Oswald. ‘In case…’

‘In case we wound up trying to kill each other’, finishes Jim.

The words seem to tumble from Oswald’s mouth, even though it should be obvious by now. 

‘I don’t want to kill you.’

Jim’s hand stills on his shoulder. ‘Me neither.’ 

Jim takes his hand away. The loss of touch stings, somehow, and Oswald leans forward unconsciously, seeking out contact.

Jim stands, looks down at him. ‘I can tell them to leave, now.’ His face is difficult to read, more schooled in stoicism than Oswald. But his chest rises and falls faster than it needs to, and his eyes look darker, the pupils wide. He’s waiting for a decision.

‘Yes’, says Oswald. He starts to rise awkwardly from the couch when Jim extends a hand. He takes it. Jim’s fingers wrap warm round him, and he pulls him closer than he needs to be.

‘Yes?’ asks Jim, echoing his words from a moment ago, making sure.

Oswald swallows, and his answer is more a sigh than anything else. ‘Yes.’ He keeps his grip tight, using Jim’s hand as an anchor to lean closer and up. The warmth as his face gets nearer, and the feeling of Jim’s breath on his lips is something he hadn’t expected. It makes him feel a little drunk, and he pauses, lets his eyes close for a moment.

Before he can move closer, Jim completes the connection for him. His lips are a little rough, as he brushes them over Oswald’s, making him shiver and press closer.

Jim stops, breath uneven, pulling back a little. Oswald somehow forces his eyes open to see Jim looking down at him, lids heavy, and his mouth slightly open. Oswald hears a strangled little sound come from his own throat, and he grabs the back of Jim’s neck, pulling him closer.

The time, it’s slower, deeper.

They pull apart again, breath stuttering. Jim walks to the door. Oswald steps a little nearer, too – enough that Gabe will be able to see him when Jim opens the door.

Bullock and Gabe peer inside the apartment. Gabe spots him quickly, and Oswald gives a slight nod. The big man relaxes, takes his hand off his gun. Unsurprised, as usual.

Bullock is looking dubiously at Jim, eyes scanning his face. He flicks his gaze over to Oswald. His half-open shirt and dishevelled hair don’t even raise an eyebrow on Bullock’s weathered face. Oswald makes a mental note that Bullock is possibly more observant than he had previously considered.

Bullock’s eyes glance between Jim and Oswald for a moment. Seemingly satisfied, or resigned, he squeezes Jim’s uninjured shoulder, and leaves.

The door closes again, and Oswald watches as Jim turns to face him, walks back towards him. There’s a want so deep in him that his limbs ache with it, and his fists clench at his sides.

He gets closer, and closer, and doesn’t stop, and Oswald stumbles back a little, eyes wide. Jim’s hand shoots out and grips his waist to steady him, hold him where he is. Once he’s satisfied that he’s still, his hand gentles a little, trailing lightly over Oswald’s waist to the small of his back, fingertips drawing circles that make Oswald grip his hip hard, making Jim hiss and press against him.

He slips his other hand inside Oswald’s shirt, fingers worrying at his scar again.

Oswald allows it for a moment, only a moment, before gripping his wrist and dragging his hand down to where his heart is, pressing his palm flat against it, forcing him to stop dwelling on what’s done, and focus on him now, _here._

When they come together, they make something entirely new, only stronger for the breaking.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've got this far, then thank-you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> The title is taken from a Hannibal quote which I adore, and which seems apt for these two:
> 
> Bedelia: Forgiveness is too great and difficult for one person. It requires two. A betrayer and a betrayed. Which one are you?  
> Hannibal: I'm vague on those details.  
> Bedelia: Betrayal and forgiveness are best seen as something akin to falling in love.  
> Hannibal: You cannot control with respect to whom you fall in love.
> 
> As ever, happy to chat in the comments, and any feedback appreciated. :)


End file.
